When Night Falls
by RyderBPD
Summary: Flack goes berserk the night of Angell's death. Rated M for language, use of alcohol and some sensuality. Oneshot.


Author's Note: This short snapshot takes place during the evening of the day Angell was killed. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from CSI:NY. No copyright infringement is intended.**

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The fifth floor is empty as I stumble down the hallway. My palms are hitting the walls as I go--the only things keeping me from waking up my neighbors.

I'm drunk. Drunk, pissed off and scared—a bad combination for a cop who pretends like he's always got his shit together. I should've gone home with Stella after the unis processed us downtown. . .she'd offered to let me crash at her place so I wouldn't have to go home alone. But like always, I had to be the tough guy. Had to prove I could man up and hack it on my own.

Stupid.

Because I didn't go home like I promised the CSIs I would. I started in that direction—rejected a ride home from a rookie on duty in favor of walking—but my legs wouldn't go those last ten blocks. Instead, they took me straight into Murphy's and dropped my ass on a well-worn stool. Barkeep took one look at my face and wordlessly placed a pint of Guinness in front of me. Frankie glanced a little too long at my hands, but after seeing the blankness in my eyes he turned and started polishing the bar with a towel.

I'd looked down at my wounds then, resisting the urge to spit in frustration on the thick gauze wrapped between my right thumb and index finger. The deep gash on my palm was already soaking through the bandage job's layers, making my hand look like it'd been chopped in half. Although I see blood every day on the job, I wasn't used to seeing my own red stuff smeared all over my skin—so I took a big swig of beer to calm my nerves. I was barely keeping it together in the face of everything that had happened in the last eighteen hours. I closed my eyes and saw the bar explode again.

_"A kind. . .that restored your faith in humanity." The words are barely out of Stella's mouth when the first shot crashes through the window and shatters a bottle of vodka. All of the CSI guys hit the deck as more bullets spray into the bar. Wood splinters. Alcohol splatters everywhere. Lindsay takes a slug in the shoulder, and part of me wants to go help, but I can't move. I'm stuck to my seat watching the shots destroy everything around us. And then I see a bullet coming straight at my head. Maybe I'll be with Jess again after all. All I have to do is shut my eyes and let it take me home to her. Suddenly, Stella grabs my belt and throws me on the floor. "Flack, get down!" she screams. I land in a pile of glass and the pieces dig deeply into my hands, snapping me back to reality. "Anybody else hit?!" I shout, whipping out my radio and calling the shooting into the precinct. Adam holds up his shaking right forearm, which has a huge piece of glass embedded in the muscle. Mac's right temple is oozing blood, but he's more concerned about helping Sid and Stella to safety. Danny and Hawkes have Lindsay's bullet wound stopped up with Danny's jacket, and we all scramble behind the bar as sirens start wailing in the distance. . . ._

Shaking a little, I brought a hand to my face and rubbed my eyes. At least everyone made it out of the bar alive. Adam's gash was pretty deep, but the glass hadn't nicked any major arteries or anything. Chicks would dig the scar. The cut on Mac's head didn't even need stitches, which was kinda too bad. He'd have been even more of a badass with a few threads in his temple. Lindsay's right arm needed to be in a sling for the next couple of weeks, but the only real consequence was that Danny would have to feed Lucy for a while. I smiled thinking about Danno and his two girls. He'd go to hell and back for that baby, and we all knew it.

My mind at ease about my friends, the Guinness disappeared quickly as I tried to block out what had happened to Jess that morning. When I got to the bottom of the glass, though, I still felt her wet blood soak my fingers as it poured out of her stomach. Heard her ragged breath try to say my name as she gasped in the back of the squad car. Saw the color and life go out of her eyes as the ER staff shoved her gurney through those swinging double doors. So I gave Frankie a nod and another beer was placed in my hands.

A tingling feeling finally started to make its way from my mouth through the rest of my body. The more I drank, the less I felt. Pretty soon I could barely feel my arms resting on the bar, and I was about to ask for yet another drink when I thought of Sam. My poor baby sister knockin' 'em back at two in the afternoon because she couldn't stop herself. _I don't wanna be another statistic_, I thought. _Maybe I should just go home._ My now-heavy legs started to get up from the stool but were stopped by a voice in my head. _Screw it, _it said. _What's one more gonna do? You just had the worst day of your life, man! Your girlfriend was murdered. MURDERED! It's the only way to make the pain go away. Go on. Just one more. _

Normally I try to be a guy who knows his limits. A man who does the right thing no matter what. But seeing Jess dead on that steel hospital slab broke me. What else could've made me so weak that I'd plug a suspect in the head at point blank range? And so for whatever reason—fatigue, grief, shock or fear—I gave in to that voice and put as much beer down my throat as it would take. I can't remember how many pints I had or even how I got home.

So now here I am, fumbling with the keys to my own apartment. I finally get the stupid door open and almost trip over my own feet. It's almost all gone from my head now—the day I've just lived through. But I can still see the corners of her father's mouth start to shake as he tries not to cry. The feel of her limp and cold hand is still on my palm. So I cut a crooked path to the fridge and yank out an open bottle of red wine. I don't even bother with a glass. I just sit and drink straight out of the damn bottle, staring off into space. At one point I spill some wine on my shirt, and I think about how I already had to change my clothes once today. Her blood is still all over that shirt and tie, but I know I'll never have 'em cleaned. They're all I have left of her besides my memories.

When there's only a few swigs left, I get up from the kitchen counter and start making my way towards the bedroom. At this point I can barely see straight, and I've almost lost complete control over my body. So the couch's decision to take on my shins—and win—is no huge surprise. "Dammit!" I shout, louder than necessary. I turn to keep stumbling in the general direction of bed when I see something on the floor.

The now uncovered patch of wood has something black on it. Switching the wine bottle from right hand to left, I reach down and clumsily pick up the dark object. It's silky, whatever it is—with some lace surrounding the fabric. And suddenly I'm transported back in time.

_Jess is sitting across the kitchen counter from me on a rainy Friday evening, wearing a sexy red dress and bright lipstick to match. It's the first time she's stayed past dinner, and I'm hoping she's gonna stay the night. She sighs, gets up from her chair, and says, "Well, Detective, are you coming to bed or what?" Before I can answer, she turns towards my room, unzips her dress and throws it on the bed. I stand up to give chase and she's already got her black bra off, holding it up with just a finger. She tosses it at me playfully and I catch it, dropping it on the floor near the couch before pulling my own shirt off and running into the bedroom. _

My daydream ends and I come crashing back to Earth. I've gotten hard thinking about that night, which is embarrassing and wrong because she's gone. I'll never feel those gorgeous breasts against my skin again—or be able to put my hands on her face as she's kissing me. The thought of never again seeing her smile at me first thing in the morning. . .when her hair's all messed up and those long, smooth legs are wrapped around my body. . .is too much. I snap.

The wine bottle comes flying out of my left hand and breaks against the floor, sending green glass everywhere. The rage boils up and bursts out of my body like a volcano erupting, and pretty soon it's not me bellowing and throwing things all over the apartment. It's a monster out for blood, and all I can do is watch helplessly while he destroys the place. At one point he grabs one of the hockey sticks leaning up against the wall by my bedroom door and begins attacking everything breakable--as though each object was the son of a bitch that shot Jess. "Why did I let you off easy?!" I hear myself scream. "I should've kept you alive and ripped every limb off your body, you useless scumbag! You motherfucking murdering piece of shit! I hope you rot in hell!"

The blade of the hockey stick rips into everything—the framed black and white photos on my wall, the wine glasses drying near the sink, the mirror on the bedroom door. All I see is red as I swing over and over again. I hear my suit jacket rip across my shoulders, but I'm not done. I keep striking like I'm Drury beatin' the crap out of one of the Bruins at center ice.

And then I see Jess' face. It's how she must've looked right before the truck demolished the café—her lips are turned up into a flirty smile, making her eyes disappear into those adorable little lines. The mirage of her beautiful mouth makes me stop mid-swing and I lose my balance, shouting, "Babe, please, don't leave!" as I fall. On my way down to the floor, the edge of the kitchen counter finds the back of my head, and I start bleeding before I even land in the glass.

The alcohol-soaked rage finally leaves my body, and I look down at the simple piece of sports equipment that's become such a dangerous weapon. The hockey stick slips out of my hands as I reach behind my head to check out the damage. It's deeper than I thought, something confirmed by the fuzzy headache that's starting to spread all over. I'm only a couple of minutes from passing out and I gotta let somebody know. I don't wanna die. I gotta keep going for her, keep doin' the work she loved to do.

I manage to reach in my pocket and pull out my phone, finding the 7 key and pressing down hard. It rings a couple of times before a woman's voice comes over the line. "Flack?" Even in my messed-up state, I can hear the concern in Stella's words. "Flack, what's wrong?"

"Stell," I manage, "I drank too much. . .just lost it. . .and I fell. . .glass everywhere. I need help. Please. . . ."

"Mac!" Stella screams. "Call 911! Get the paramedics over to Flack's place ASAP!" She says something to me, but her voice is getting fainter and fainter, like she's walking away and leaving me behind. I wince as a loud noise rockets through the apartment: there's somebody pounding on the front door. It's probably the neighbors, but I don't have the strength to let them in. Mac and Stella will be here soon.

Just before I fall into total darkness, I think of my partner. The incredible woman I was gonna spend the rest of my life with. We're lying in bed on a Saturday morning, laughing and kissing like a couple of teenagers. The sun's on her face and she's got eyes for nobody but me.

"I love you, Jess," I whisper.

And then the night puts me out of my misery.


End file.
